


Alpha Tango Romeo

by KuriKuri



Category: Iron Man (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Get Together, Kind of a bodyguard AU?, M/M, mainly fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-09
Updated: 2014-02-09
Packaged: 2018-01-11 16:52:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,016
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1175492
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KuriKuri/pseuds/KuriKuri
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The first words that Phil Coulson ever says to Clint Barton are, “Do you want to have Tony Stark’s gaybies?”</p><p>Clint just barely manages to keep himself from saying, “No, but I’d love to have yours.” </p><p>(Or: An AU in which Clint ends up as Tony Stark's bodyguard instead of Happy and maybe kind of has a crush on Phil Coulson. Maybe.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Alpha Tango Romeo

**Author's Note:**

> Trigger Warnings: Uh... breaking and entering? Not really anything I can think of. Well, Clint shoots someone in the shoulder. 
> 
> Takes place slightly before, during, and slightly after Iron Man 2.

The first words that Phil Coulson ever says to Clint Barton are, “Do you want to have Tony Stark’s gaybies?”

Clint just barely manages to keep himself from saying, “No, but I’d love to have yours.” 

\---

It’s been nearly six months since Clint started working as a personal bodyguard for Tony Stark. It’s also been nearly six months since Clint nearly told Coulson – head of security for Stark Industries and technically his boss – that he wants to have his adopted children. Much to Clint’s dismay, his original sentiment hasn’t changed much; if anything, that desire has actually increased. 

Which is kind of really fucking inconvenient.

“ – are you even listening to me?” the man in question sighs, breaking Clint from his mind’s ramblings. 

Fuck. He’d gotten distracted admiring his boss again, hadn’t he? He really needs to get a grip, and soon. 

“Uh, yeah. Sorry,” Clint replies, blinking and shrinking a bit under Coulson’s annoyed glare. “You were saying?”

“I was saying that because this is Stark’s first press conference since revealing his identity as Iron Man I’m going to automatically set our threat level to high,” Coulson repeats, although his exasperated tone is a little too fond for him to be truly mad at Clint. “We also need to completely revamp our protocols now, although I’d like to avoid relying on Stark’s suit too much.” 

“Sounds good,” Clint replies, nodding as he flips through some of the files the other man has spread out over his desk, most of them rough drafts of said updated security protocols. “We should probably talk with Tasha while planning these, though. We don’t want to make it look like Stark’s completely incapable of protecting himself with the suit.” 

Natasha Romanov is Tony Stark’s publicist, and boy did she have her work cut out for her. Running damage control now that Stark has officially announced that he's Iron Man is probably easier than trying to keep the whole secret identity under wraps, though. At least from a PR standpoint, that is. Stark certainly hasn't made Clint’s job any easier. 

“We can include her in the next meeting,” Coulson agrees, nodding. “For now I’d like to get you alone for a bit.” 

Clint tries to stop the blood from flowing to his cheeks. (Well, and further south.) He hopes he hasn’t turned bright, splotchy red like he normally does, but he’s certain there’s at least a light dusting of pink across his cheeks and the tips of his ears. 

“Yeah?” Clint says, his voice admirably steady even though it feels like it should come out as some sort of wobbly squeak. 

“Are you feeling okay?” Coulson asks, frowning at Clint, his brow furrowed adorably. “You look kind of flushed. You’re not getting sick, are you?” 

Clint just barely manages to keep himself from saying, “Yeah, lovesick.” 

Fuck, Coulson has a very special way of fucking with his brain filter. Luckily he hasn’t infected Clint’s mouth filter yet. That would be awkward. 

“I’m fine,” the bodyguard replies, although his mouth is dry, his face is burning, and his heart is beating quite a bit quicker than it should. 

Maybe he’s in a little deeper than he thought.

\---

It’s game day, and Clint braces himself for another boring day of standing around while Stark does his typical song and dance. Well, maybe it won’t exactly be typical – today’s circumstances have changed a bit from, say, last month’s – but the heavy lifting, at least on Clint’s side of the job, is already done. In some ways he misses being in the army, because there he actually got to shoot things sometimes (things other than paper targets, that is). Being a bodyguard, even for someone as high profile as Tony Stark, consists mainly of planning routes, scoping out buildings, and running background checks on everyone he might possibly come in contact with that day. Occasionally he gets to shoot someone, but that usually means he didn’t do the rest of his job right.

(Clint had found that out his first week on the job. He’d neglected to run thorough enough background checks on all the guests attending Stark’s gala-fundraiser-thing, only to nearly get shot protecting Stark from some muscle hired by one of Stark’s competitors. How was he to know that Letawik had mob ties? Anyway, Coulson had given him a proper chewing out after that, and Clint was pretty sure that the only reason he hadn’t lost his job was that no one had actually been injured. That and Stark liked him. Or Stark liked to piss Coulson off.)

But none of that is going to happen today. He’s covered all the bases, checked and double checked all of his security measures. Stark’s just giving a standard press conference, even if it’s his first as a genius, billionaire, playboy, philanthropist, _superhero_. Nothing gets by Clint and his amazing eyesight, anyway.

Of course, this is why, when Tony steps up to the podium and clears his throat, Clint notices the glare off of what can only be the barrel of a gun in the hands of a mousey looking reporter two rows from the front. Clint’s mind jolts into overdrive and he almost tackles Tony as he sees the man’s finger start to apply pressure to the trigger. However, before Clint makes his move, something else catches his eye and he changes direction.

A moment later, Phil Coulson hits the floor under Clint Barton’s not inconsiderable weight as the crack of a gunshot echoes throughout the room. Tony stands, still at the podium, unharmed as he blinks at Clint and Coulson, his eyes wide with surprise. Or that’s what Clint assumes he looks like. The bodyguard himself is a bit too busy scrambling to an upright position, firing off a single round. The shooter falls to the ground with a thump and a scream, a single bullet hole in the shoulder of his shooting arm. 

This is when the other journalists in the room recover enough of their wits to start shrieking at a pitch and volume that Clint has honestly never heard before.

“Barton – ” Coulson starts, drawing his gun with practiced speed as he scrambles to his feet.

“I can’t see any other hostiles, Sir. Just the one,” Clint replies, moving to stand in front of the other man, guarding him with his own body. “We should get you out of here.” 

“Enacting security protocol Alpha Tango Romeo,” Phil announces into his radio before nodding at Clint and following him over to the building’s emergency exit.

Clint goes a few steps before pausing, turning around, and grabbing Tony Stark by the wrist, dragging him along. Stark looks like he’s about to protest for a moment before deciding better and closing his mouth again, simply going along with Clint and Coulson. 

Once they’re in the safety of Stark’s limo – the one with the bulletproof glass and reinforced doors – he opens his mouth again. 

“You know, not that I don’t appreciate the fact that Agent Agent is still breathing, but I thought that _I_ was supposed to be the one you’ve been hired to protect, Legolas,” Stark says, his voice surprisingly less shaky than the last time Clint had driven them away from a shooting. 

“He wasn’t targeting – ” Clint starts before glancing over at Coulson and changing his mind about saying what he’d planned on saying. “Well, he was probably targeting you, but his aim was shit. It was pretty clear that he was going to hit Coulson accidentally.” 

The head of security gives him a look which Clint isn’t able to fully decipher. He can’t quite tell if it’s grateful, suspicious, both, or neither. At the moment, Clint has more important things to focus on than the emotions playing across Coulson’s face, though. 

Of course, looking away from Coulson has never come easy to Clint. 

\---

“So, you wanna tell me why someone tried shooting you today?” Clint asks, leaning against the doorframe of Coulson’s office.

He feels a small rush as he notices the way the other man’s shoulders tense, the change in his posture almost too small for even his eyes to distinguish. The change is there, though, which means that Clint’s on to something. It means that Phil Coulson’s life might be at stake. It means that Clint Barton can take no shit and no prisoners, because goddamn it – the future father of his gay babies just about died today!

(Yeah, Clint has a problem.)

“How should I know? I suppose it’s because I’m Stark’s head of security,” Coulson replies, not even bothering to look up from his paperwork as Clint plops himself down in the chair on the other side of his desk. “I believe the police are sorting that out right now.”

“You should know by now that I’m not that stupid,” Clint scoffs, frowning at the other man and feeling a little… disappointed. “There was only one shooter. He would have just shot Stark if that’s who he was actually going for. He would have brought back up if he’d planned on taking you out first.”

“You said yourself that he probably just had bad aim,” Coulson says idly, still not looking at Clint, but his voice wavers ever so slightly. 

“Someone who managed to get past all of our security measures wouldn’t be that sloppy,” Clint counters, shaking his head. 

“Well, I have no answers for you, then,” the other man retorts, his voice containing a hint of warning that Clint has never had directed at him before. 

“I suppose I’ll just have to stay here until you remember something,” Clint replies stubbornly, sinking back into his chair and making himself as comfortable as possible. 

Just as he’s starting to feel a bit drowsy, though, a harried looking research assistant runs into the office, her glasses crooked and her hair skewed. 

“There was an, uh, explosion in lab six, and – ” she stammers and Clint and Coulson are already halfway down the hallway before she finishes. 

Looks like their talk will have to wait.

\---

Clinton Francis Barton is stuck in a closet. No, no – an _actual_ closet with mops and brooms and other janitorial supplies, although he supposes the whole metaphorical closet thing applies, too. Especially considering the fact that Coulson’s pressed up behind him, less than an inch of space between them, and Clint’s almost afraid to breathe, because then he’ll be flush against Coulson’s chest and he’s not sure he could handle that right now. Or ever, really. 

He feels like he’s seen this rom-com before. Of course, he was pretty sure the plot didn’t include masked assailants with guns right outside the door, trying to interrogate a famous billionaire’s publicist. Clint wishes that he could hear what they’re saying, but at the moment all he can make out is the soft lilt of Natasha’s voice, which at least means that she’s still alive. 

“ _Now_ do you wanna tell me what’s going on?” Clint hisses as quietly as possible, pressing himself up against the door and trying to focus on the fact that Natasha is being _tortured_ and he’s pretty sure that it’s not Stark they’re looking for. “And don’t try the stupid ‘I know fuck-all’ bullshit again, because – ”

Coulson clamps a hand down over Clint’s mouth and it takes a massive amount of restraint to keep himself from just biting down immediately. Actually, the only reason he doesn’t is because he doesn't want them to get caught too, on the off chance that Coulson yells out in pain. After all, they’re Natasha’s only hope now. 

“Shhhh,” Coulson says, his mouth so close to Clint’s ear that he can feel the other man’s breath. 

Clint has to bite his lip too keep himself from whimpering. Fuck. 

Of course, the moment that Clint regains his senses, he realizes that the room beyond the closet door has gone completely silent. He stands there in silence for a moment, listening carefully, before tugging at Coulson’s hand and tapping out a message in Morse code on his boss’ thigh. (“I think they’ve left.”) Coulson nods and releases Clint, who moves his hand to the doorknob and very slowly opens the door. 

What he finds on the other side is not what he expected. 

“My father was a boxer,” Natasha says simply, answering his shocked stare with a straight face and a miniscule head tilt, daring him to challenge her. 

Clint decides that not challenging her is probably a good idea. He shuts his mouth and tries not to gape at the five men passed out – _knocked_ out – on the floor, littered around her feet. He also tries to ignore the shredded pile of rope on the floor and the wooden chair which isn’t actually a chair anymore, seeing as it’s been broken down into about twelve different pieces. 

Boxing his _ass_.

“Well done, Ms. Romanov,” Coulson says, somehow not sounding terribly impressed or even surprised, for that matter. “I’ll call the authorities now. Barton, would you kindly restrain them?”

Clint wonders if Coulson’s nonchalant tone means that he can do better. He swallows thickly and tries not to think about his boss fighting off five armed assailants too hard, and he definitely doesn’t think about Coulson pressing him up against the closet door and whispering in his ear. 

“Sure,” Clint replies, and he must not be doing a very good job at keeping the arousal out of his tone, because Natasha gives him a very knowing look. 

Once Coulson turns his back, he glares at her. She just smirks and adjusts her hair in the mirror. 

Fuck it. Clint wants answers, and goddamn it, he’s going to get them.

\---

Clint looks up at the bland apartment building that the Stark Industries employee database says Coulson lives in and decides that he has the wrong address. He checks the building’s number again, frowning as it matches the one that’s printed in the online directory he has open on his StarkPhone. He glares at it for a moment longer before sighing and entering the building. 

He walks through the lobby as if he lives there and no one gives him a second glance. He’s dressed in an old army t-shirt, sweatpants, and a hoodie. He has headphones on, but he’s not actually listening to anything, even though he makes sure to hum softly under his breath. He looks like just another tenant coming back from a jog, although he’s careful to angle his head so that his face won’t appear on the security cameras, and he’s sure that his hood covers up his sandy blonde hair.

According to the directory, Coulson lives in apartment 1412. Throughout the entire elevator ride Clint tries his best to contain his nervous energy, but he at least manages to force a smile as an old lady gets in on level ten. He’s relieved when he finally escapes the elevator, but wandering the halls isn’t much better. They shouldn’t make him so anxious, but the cheery yellow wallpaper only makes Clint feel even more obvious and out of place. 

When he gets to Coulson’s door, he’s caught between knocking and just letting himself in. He knows that Coulson’s at Stark Industries – he’d called in just an hour ago complaining about his nonexistent food poisoning – but there’s still a chance that the apartment doesn’t belong to Coulson at all and it would be pretty awkward to wander on into some random person’s apartment. Then he’d probably get arrested and his whole mission would go down the tubes. 

He frowns for a moment and then knocks, trying not to wince at how loudly the sound reverberates in the otherwise silent hallway. However, no one answers. Clint waits a moment longer before deciding that the coast in clear. He fishes around in his pocket before coming up with a pair of gloves and a lock pick set. Clint pulls on the leather gloves and carefully examines the lock, selecting a pick with care. He doesn’t want to risk leaving any obvious marks on the door. If Coulson suspects anything…

Clint shakes his head, trying to discourage his mind from wandering down that path. He’ll cross that bridge if (when) he gets to it. For now he just needs to know what’s going on. He needs to know if Coulson is in danger, and if not… well, he needs to know if Coulson himself is a danger, both to Stark and himself. 

It isn’t long before Clint hears a soft click, indicating that he’s successfully foiled the lock. He readjusts his hood again, just in case there are any security cameras inside, before grasping the door handle and twisting it. The door opens smoothly and without a sound – a fact for which Clint is very grateful – and he peers inside the entryway for a moment before stepping inside. 

The first room is largely empty. There’s a couch and a lamp but not much else. Similarly, the kitchenette off to one side appears to contain only a microwave, toaster, and a couple of dishes, all of which are in the sink waiting to be washed. Which, Clint supposes, is probably good. It means that someone actually lives here, at any rate. 

In the bathroom he finds a few toiletries, a towel, and toilet paper, but that’s about it. The two other rooms in the apartment, however, are completely empty. Well, except for the one at the end of the hall. It’s probably the master bedroom, but Clint isn’t sure, mainly because the door is locked. Frowning, he pulls out his lock picks again and sets to work. 

Inside is… not what he expected. There’s a bed in one corner, the sheets rumpled and unmade, but the rest of the space is filled with wires, computer monitors, and some other techy shit that he can’t identify. It reminds him a bit of the mobile command center back when he was serving overseas. 

He steps fully into the room and walks over to what looks like the main computer. In front of it is one of those comfy black swivel chairs and he pauses for a moment before deciding to sit down in it. It takes a little while to find where all the buttons are on the computer, but eventually he manages to boot it up. Of course, it’s password protected, and although he’s more computer literate than most people think he is after finding out he grew up in the circus before joining the army, he’s never been good at hacking. 

A little disappointed but not surprised, Clint glances around the desk for any other clues. Which is when he spots the phone. It’s an old flip phone, pretty outdated, and Clint chews his lip, conflicted, as he realizes it’s probably a burner phone. What the hell is Coulson involved in?

He picks it up and opens it. There’s one missed call and Clint quickly memorizes the number before putting the phone back and turning off the computer monitor again. He looks around the room one more time, but doesn’t see anything else useful. 

With only the suspicious phone number and a heavy heart, he leaves.

\---

Clint stops at a payphone on his way home. He’s spent a while contemplating what to do with the phone number he’s memorized, and he’s come to the conclusion that it’s more important to try and find out who Coulson’s working with than to keep him from knowing that something’s up. He might just think that it’s the people who’ve been trying to kill him, anyway. 

Clint’s careful to keep his gloves on as he dials and picks up the phone. He wants to be absolutely sure that if whoever’s on the other end traces his call they won’t find any evidence implicating him. The bodyguard taps his fingers on his thigh nervously as he waits for someone to pick up.

“Authorization code?” a cool female voice asks and Clint nearly drops the phone. 

He hangs up immediately and gets the hell out of dodge, all the while trying to figure out how Natasha Romanov, publicist, factors into the Coulson secret agent equation. 

\---

Later that evening, Clint hears someone knock at his door. He sighs internally as he gets up from the couch in order to check who’s there and probably confirm his suspicions. Sure enough, Phil Coulson is standing outside his door, looking concerned and sincere, as if he’s actually here to see if Clint’s alright and doesn’t have any ulterior motive.

God, he wants to love this man – already does, at least a little – but it was so much simpler to want him when Clint didn’t have to worry about him having some sort of shady double life. 

“Boss?” Clint says, feigning surprise. “Uh, not that I don’t love seeing you, but what are you doing here?”

“I just wanted to make sure you’re okay, what with the food poisoning and all,” Coulson replies, and he sounds so fucking concerned – _actually_ concerned – that Clint just about falls for his act.

Goddamn. He still wants to have this man’s babies. 

“Oh. Um, come in?” Clint answers tentatively, opening the door wider and letting Coulson into his slightly shabby apartment. 

Clint’s glad he prepared for the worst. There’s a nest of blankets on the couch and a garbage can nearby, along with a roll of paper towels and a box of tissues, as if Clint really did have food poisoning and this was his fortress as he waited out the storm. In fact, the bodyguard had even taken the time to mess up his hair and rub a bit of graphite powder under his eyes to make himself look exhausted, as if he’d stayed up the entire night puking. 

“Thank you,” Coulson replies, smiling half heartedly and glancing around the room. “I would have brought you dinner or something, but I figured it wouldn’t be too appreciated…” 

Despite his new reservations about Coulson, Clint is unable to keep his heart from skipping a beat at that proclamation. It sounds suspiciously similar to a date, and for the millionth time Clint just wants to forget that he’d ever thought Coulson is anything other than the kind, attractive man in front of him. 

Of course, it’s never that simple. Not for Clint, at least. 

They talk for a while – small talk, all of the topics mundane. They chat about work and Coulson even makes a few jokes at Stark’s expense with his traditional dry humor which make Clint laugh, even though he’s still more than a little mad at the other man. As the conversation begins to wind down, Clint checks the clock and blinks, surprised to find that what felt like only fifteen minutes at most has been nearly an hour. 

“I should probably go,” Coulson says, following Clint’s gaze.

“You don’t have to,” the bodyguard finds himself saying despite himself. “I wasn’t trying to – ”

“I know,” Coulson replies, smiling softly again. “I still have some work to do, though.” 

Clint feels his heart sink slightly as Coulson stands, straightening out his slacks and buttoning his suit jacket which had at some point become unbuttoned. He walks to the door and opens it and for a moment Clint thinks Coulson’s going to leave without giving him a proper goodbye. The other man pauses at the door, however, and turns back to Clint, a complex set of emotions on his face which Clint isn’t able to fully identify. 

“Barton,” Coulson starts, pausing for a moment, and Clint almost thinks he’s going to leave it at that. “Clint.”

The bodyguard’s heart skips another beat. Coulson’s never called him anything other than Barton before. 

“I know that you know that I’m keeping things from you,” the other man continues, “and I know that you probably don’t trust me like you used to, if you can even find it in yourself to trust me at all, but please believe me when I tell you that I care about you and just want you to be safe.” 

He glances at Clint one more time and leaves without waiting for a reply.

\---

It’s been a week since their conversation in Clint’s apartment, and Clint’s still feeling conflicted. He can’t help himself from trusting Coulson at least a little bit, but at the same time part of him keeps wondering if his boss is just manipulating his emotions. It wouldn’t be hard.

Of course, then all of the shit with Ivan fucking Vanko happens and Clint finds himself running around in a whirlwind of red, white, and blue Iron Man suits, homicidal Russian inventors, and Natasha Romanov in a fucking _cat suit_. 

Yeah, he can’t quite believe it either. 

“I’m coming with you,” Clint announces as they pull up in front of Hammer Industries, ready to take down a crazy Russian terrorist.

“You should stay in the car,” Natasha replies, already halfway out the door, not even bothering to spare him a glance.

“I’m not saying you have to babysit me,” Clint protests, putting the car into park and fumbling around in the back seat looking for his weapons before hurrying to catch up with Natasha. “If I fall behind I get left behind, I get it – but I can help you.”

Natasha gives him a considering glance, all cold eyes and stony frown.

“Fine, but I’m holding you to that,” she says as he bursts through the doors. 

The first security guard falls to the ground with an arrow to the shoulder before Natasha can get more than two steps inside the building. 

“Try not to kill anyone,” she orders idly, although Clint is sure he sees something akin to approval in her eyes as she inspects his bow. 

Clint just grins and knocks another arrow. 

\---

A few hours later, Clint sighs in relief as he sits on the stairs leading up to the Stark Expo entrance, ambulances and emergency personal buzzing around the scene. He and Natasha – Agent Romanov, apparently – had rushed over after cutting off Vanko’s control of the Mark II drones, only to find out that Stark had already subdued Vanko. Stark had already gone god knows where with Pepper Potts and Clint just kind of needed to rest for a moment. Which is why he’d decided to just kind of sit down in the middle of all the chaos.

“Are you Clint Barton?”

Clint opens his eyes, looking around in surprise, not having realized that he’d closed them in the first place. Standing in front of him is a tall African American man with an eye patch and a leather trench coat. At this point, Clint doesn’t even try to question it. He does, however, blink when he notices Phil Coulson standing behind Mr. Pirate. 

“Uh, yes,” Clint replies, frowning. “Why?”

“How good are you with a bow?” the man asks, causing Clint to narrow his eyes in suspicion. 

“Who said I knew anything about using a bow?” Clint replies, hauling himself to his feet and straightening out his posture. 

“I’d like to offer you a job, Mr. Barton,” Pirate man continues, ignoring Clint’s question. “So, how good are you?”

“I never miss,” Clint says after a moment, his tone containing nothing but absolute confidence. “I already have a job, though.”

“I can promise you that this one’s better,” the man replies, an air of smug confidence about him that makes Clint almost like the bastard. “But I’ll let Coulson pitch it to you.” 

Clint glances over to Coulson again who’s still hanging around behind this strange man, so far having not offered any sort of explanation to Clint. Pirate guy just turns and claps Coulson on the shoulder, his back to Clint, before walking away. Clint can almost hear him whistling. 

Of course, now that the weird guy is gone, that just leaves Clint and Coulson together. Alone. Or, well, as alone as they could be considering how various emergency services people are still bustling around them trying to run damage control. It’s kind of awkward, really.

“That was my boss. Well, my actual boss,” Coulson offers as a way of introduction, his hands clasped awkwardly in front of him. “He takes a bit of getting used to.”

“You know, I think you’re going to have to work on your pitch, if that’s the first thing you’re going to tell me,” Clint says, shooting his boss – or, well, former boss, he supposes – a wry smile. 

“I – it’s not – ” Coulson stammers, and Clint blinks in surprise as he sees the tips of the other man’s ears turn slightly red in embarrassment. “I’m normally much better at this. It’s just you – ”

“I?” Clint prompts, looking at Coulson expectantly. 

“Would you like to continue this conversation over coffee?” Coulson says finally, his ears still adorably red, but his tone more confident. 

“Fuck, yes,” Clint replies without even thinking about it.

\---

“Do you remember the first words you ever said to me?” Clint asks, stirring his coffee idly, looking at Coulson – Phil, actually – curiously. 

“Um. No. Should I?” Phil replies, frowning at Clint as he tries to recall what he’d said. 

“They were pretty great words,” Clint says, a mischievous smile spreading over his lips. 

“Oh god, what did I say?” Phil questions, and he looks like he’s dreading the answer.

“You asked me if I wanted to have Tony Stark’s ‘gaybies,’” Clint replies, causing Phil to groan and bury his face in his hands. 

“Jesus, did I really?” Phil says, sounding absolutely mortified. 

“You did,” Clint answers, nodding. “Don’t worry, though. I almost replied by telling you that I’d rather have yours.” 

“What?” Phil squawks, staring at Clint with wide eyes. 

“Yeah, I know,” Clint replies, his cheeks heating slightly as he looks away from Phil and down to his coffee. 

“Fuck, if you had said that I don’t think I’d have been able to keep my hands off of you for this long,” the other man moans, burying his face in his hands again for a moment, trying to hide his own blush.

“Maybe I should tell you it more often, then,” Clint says, shooting Phil a wide grin. 

Phil just smiles back.

**Author's Note:**

> _I do not give permission to have any of my works put up on goodreads or any other such site._


End file.
